


Nice Face

by Yusariis



Series: Tuckington [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Asian Washington, Gradual identification of feelings, M/M, Minor Caboose role, Not yet established relationship, Tuckington - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 20:03:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2321618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yusariis/pseuds/Yusariis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wash has the kind of face people are naturally drawn to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nice Face

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to fourdollarwords and astrorium for their awesome beta-work on this and a loving thank you to my darling girlfriend for also beta-ing with me and sitting through my shitty headcanon weeping, even though she hates Red Vs. Blue.
> 
> Part 1 of Tuckington series line I'm working on. Hope you enjoy~

Wash has the kind of face that’s easy to look at. 

 

Like, if the helmet is off and he’s not really paying attention, or in any other situation that allows enough time to stare at him for a while, then it’s easy to take the opportunity. It’s not about hotness or bangability - Wash just has a face people like to look at before anything else.  

Or at least, Tucker does. 

Right now’s a good example of that, actually: on the other side of the somehow salvaged shower room of the crashed ship was Wash, only halfway dry and in his civvies. There’s a bold, black, ‘42’ in military-stencil font on his right shoulder but the more recent scars and scratches on his skin have begun to chip away at the number. Another tattoo’s inked into the inner forearm on his left arm but Tucker can’t tell you what  _that’s_  supposed to be - it seemed random; a big circle with a bunch of red pieces of something that border a square in the middle. There’s a lot he could focus on, none of it less good or more good than any other part, but it’s his face that always seems to hold Tucker’s attention. 

Maybe because it’s not the face you expect. That doesn’t make it  _bad_ , it’s just not what people would probably think if they heard “Former elite from a military operation gone horribly wrong”.  In that case, Wash  _should_  look more rugged. Stricter. Or he should look how he acts – like there’s a stick up his ass and he doesn’t know how to ride it.  Instead, Wash just looks tired every time Tucker sees the helmet come off. He’s got this weird mix of features that make up this kinda-soft-kinda-not-but-totally-worn-out face that’s not easy to stop looking at. Like, as if staring at him long enough would show all of the subtle bits that come together like that. 

Wash’s profile is almost in clear view right now. Sometimes it’ll be blocked when his hands run through his short, thick, black hair (Wash made or found some weird gel stuff somewhere) so he could slick it back and keep it out of his eyes when the helmet’s on. Tucker can see his warm beige skin is still tinged red, either from hot water or obvious over-scrubbing. His wide-set, single-lidded eyes are too focused on his hair to notice Tucker, giving him the chance to do whatever weird ogling Tucker likes to do over his face. If you’re close enough, his eyes are a really dark brown but from far away and with certain lighting, they’re solid black.  

There’s nothing gay about noticing that Wash is good-looking. Tucker’s not fantasizing about sucking Wash’s dick or having his adopted babies - he just kind of… tends to look at Wash when he can. Which isn’t often cuz the guy’s a paranoid mess who will, nine times out of ten, refuse to detach himself from his armor.  

Wash’s focus shifts from the mirror to his peripheral view - noticing the staring,  _shit_  - and turns his head to look properly. The profile of Wash’s face is all angles: a straight-and-narrow nose with a strong jawline. Seeing his oval face dead-on brings all of the bits and pieces together into a face that gets so stuck in your brain you never get it wrong. 

“What is it?” 

You don’t get it wrong because Wash has that kind of face. That’s all. 

"Where did you find that hair gel?" 

—-

Wash, fully armored and face obscured as usual, isn‘t saying or doing anything; he’s frozen in rigid shock over the standard-issue garbage disposals sudden and literal grinding halt. In most cases, “standard-issue” was synonymous with ‘fit to survive those fucking red and blue idiots’ in the official UNSC codebook. However, considering the disaster in front of them, that codebook might need updating again. 

“How…” Wash squeaks, his arms lifting to gesture but giving up halfway. Tucker leans against the wall to hang back and watch – speechless Wash is more common than helmet-less Wash and usually funnier. 

The squeaking’s not unwarranted.That garbage disposal was one of the few things on the ship that almost completely survived; not just the crash but also the relocation into their shitty makeshift base. And now it might’ve met it’s end… or, rather, it met Caboose.  

“Yeaaaah,” Caboose sighs, hands holding his gun closer and tighter than he was trained to. “Yeah, I …I heard it got rid of garbage, aaand I have a lot of garbage around, aaaaaand you told me to clean it uup, aaaand I thought if the garbage was too big for the disposal, theeennnn III should break it up more so it would all fit…” 

There’s a pause after Caboose is done to allow a grinding noise from the garbage disposal and another chunk of metal is popped back into the sink. 

"…Yeah, most of it still doesn’t fit." 

Even with the helmet on, Tucker knows the look Wash  _might_  have. It’s nothing definite but he has options. Wash doesn’t seem to know how to react to this - he might purse his lips into a thin line, might knit his brow together or they might be raised and his eyes wide at Caboose’s small disaster. There’s a lot of different ways to imagine Wash’s face. That’s just the few that Tucker can think of off the top of his head; he’d have more in time. The face is stuck in his head anyway, might as well put it to good use. 

Washington takes a deep breath, and opens the cupboard under the sink. He stares midst the various tools and repurposed sink pipes that all lead to the ships meager remaining water reserve, divvied up between washing clothes and taking showers and whatever little else was permitted.  He lets that breath out. ”It can be fixed, Caboose, don’t worry.” Wash is softer on Caboose than Church was. Tucker, on the other hand, is just as hard on him as he always has been (it’s not surprising Caboose listens to Wash best). ”Just…please clean the rest of this up. With a  _broom_ , this time. And a garbage bag.” 

As Caboose heads off, Washington kneels in front of the cupboard and grunts when his armor hits the rim, the width of the sink proving too small for the bulky, advanced metal shell they’ve all clad themselves in for years. With a sigh, he starts peeling it off. 

The arms are first. Even with the under-armor, it’s weird to see Wash without something more protective attached to him. Even if he doesn’t take it off a lot, Tucker’s seen Wash in action enough to know he’s probably more ripped than Tucker is or ever will be.   

It’s unusual to see Wash without all of his armor, and now there’s no face to distract Tucker from the rest of him. His eyes moved from Wash’s shoulders, to his arms, and then to the other firm muscles that Wash accumulated from years of working out. About as quickly as he gets stuck on that, the back and front of Wash’s torso pieces come off. 

Speculation’s over: the rest of him is just as hot as his face. Just his fucking luck. 

His back is broad and straight. It bends forward so Wash can unclasp the front from the bottom half of the armor, and his shoulder blades flex out when he does. He’s  military-grade muscle, taut, and worked, and cleaned out of crap food and bad habits that might cause sagging. 

Tucker tries to avoid Wash’s front either out of restraint or jealousy or both. The last thing he wants to think about is Wash’s probable hard pecs or taut frame. Curiosity wins out over embarrassment, however, and Tucker takes a glance despite himself. 

The sagging belly of Tuckers stomach grumbles in jealousy and shame to find Washington’s stomach isn’t just flat, or fit, but  _fucking chiseled._ He doesn’t even suck his gut in like Tucker does. Probably hasn’t for years. Tucker’s somewhere between embarrassed for himself and wondering how much time and effort it took Wash to get a body like that. 

Through all this staring, Tucker’s actually confused as to why he does it so much, and it’s the confusion that makes him not wanna say shit. He’s not turned on or pining, he just…. likes looking at Wash. Likes watching him move and not move and just kinda…. exist. He likes Wash’s face. He likes it a lot.  

….Alright, well, maybe looking at Wash’s  _face_  isn’t gay, but the way Tucker’s looking at Wash’s  _everything else_  might be a little gayer than he originally thought. It’s not a bad thing, Tucker’s got an eye for hot people, and if the hot person’s a dude then really, who cares, they’re hot. But  _fuck_ , how deep does this shit go? How much staring-at-Wash time does Tucker need to put in before earning his gay badge?  

And what, exactly, kind of gay badge is it? Is this an, “I think you’re hot in the way  _I_  wanna be hot,” kind of gay or, “I wanna put my dick in your butt,” gay or, “I wanna do romantic shit and  _maybe_  put my dick in your butt if you’re  _okay_  with it,” kind of gay, or… wait, which one’s gay again? 

"Hey, Tucker." A call jerks him back with a healthy kick to his heart, forcing him to break from his ogling. Wash pulls his head out of his helmet ( _finally_ ) and sets it to the side. And, bam, there’s Wash’s face, in the gorgeous fucking glory Tucker gets hung up on every time he sees it - and right now isn’t any different.  ”Can you give me a hand?” 

—- 

Okay, maybe he’s a  _lot_  gay for Wash, but the nerve-wracking thing is it’s  _only_  Wash, and it’s  _only_  Tucker that seems to notice stuff like that. Which either means Wash isn’t as hot as Tucker thinks (which isn’t true, he totally is), and he’s thirstier now than when he was in that stupid alien desert,  _or_  Wash  _is_ hot and everyone else in this fucking canyon thinks so, too. But what’s he gunna do, go around and ask the Reds or  _Caboose_  if Wash is hot or not?  _Fuck that._  

He’ll take the second explanation, thanks… he won’t actually  _do_ it, but he’ll take that explanation over the first one because Lavernius Tucker  _does not pine_.

"Last lap, Private!" A familiar voice says and a panting, tired Tucker jogs on, seeing the approaching object of internal frustration. 

"Dude," The word is forced out with a heavy pant. "My nips,"  he inhales as he stumbles past, "can’t take this." 

"I’ll get you nipple covers." Did Wash just laugh? Oh, fuck Wash, fuck Wash  _hard_. He tried to hide it, but Tucker heard it.  _Dick._  ”Just finish this lap.” With that, Washington leaves his line of sight completely, and Tucker pushes forward with a swear. 

‘Finish this lap,’ fucking  _sure_ , says the guy not doing  _any_  laps. He should say that if this exact circumstance ever comes up again, and if he ever remembers this. 

But anyway, Lavernius Tucker does not pine, as he said. And he’s not  _horny_  for Wash, contrary to popular self-reflection.  

…Buuuut, if he  _were_  horny for Wash… how would that go? 

Tucker thinks on this and his thoughts alternate between, ‘ _Fuck that guy,_ _f_ _uck this shit,_   _fuck exercise,_ _seriously,_ _ **fuck**_   _ **Washington**_ _,_ ’ and, ‘ _No, but seriously,_ _what_   _if_   _I_   _actually_ _ **did**_   _fuck_   _Washington?’_  

It probably wouldn’t be  _bad_ , at least. Wash isn’t exactly… unappealing (actually, Tucker’s done nothing but notice how appealing he is, lately). It wouldn’t  _suck_  if Wash grabbed for him or if he grabbed for Wash and Wash said yes… at least, not in the looks department. 

Wash  _did_  used to be a Freelancer - he’d be flexible. That’s pretty hot. And it’ll be good for when Tucker can’t move from all the  _goddamn sprints and crunches he makes Tucker do_. 

He could probably use some of his special ops tricks on something freaky.  _Good_  freaky.… if Wash even  _did_  freaky. 

….Who’s he kidding? Dude’s stressed as fuck; been in the military for God knows how long and he’s winding himself tight over — what,  _integrity?_  — he’s gotta be  _beyond_  freaky by this point. 

He’d probably sound hot, too. Wash had that kind of voice… and face…. and body, and… yeah, he’s a dick, but he’s not an asshole. Tucker’s enough of an asshole for the both of them and being a dick isn’t nearly as bad as being an asshole. 

Oh, for fucks sake, now he’s got a nice  _personality too?_  Time to keep an eye out when Tucker starts fawning over  _that_   _shit_. There has to be something stupid about Wash - there  _has_  to be fucking something to balance this shit out, because it’s pretty fucking biased and unrealistic right now. 

Tucker thinks for a while longer. He thinks long and hard and only manages to come up with other things that could be long and hard. It’s not easy to find reasons not to fuck or be attracted to Wash. 

What if he has a stupid cumface? 

…Actually, that alone might be worth it. 

“You’re done.” Washington suddenly comes back into view and the words are fucking ambrosia by this point… not because it’s Wash but because  _ **thank God laps were over**_. “That’s five, Private.” Tucker heaves a hard gasp and crumbles, leaning against the wall of the base they put together from the ship.

"Why… weren’t you… doing laps?" Tucker pants. "You started…. with me…. and stopped." 

"I finished."  

“Bullshit.” He’s not even tired.  

Wash shrugs. ”When I was in Project Freelancer, we were doing at least twice this on the first day. And it didn’t stay this easy.” 

"Easy to you.” Fuck, he used too much air talking to scoff. Wash’ll have to do without.

“I’m… used to it.” He stops. “Training, I mean. I’m just more used to it than you are right now. Five laps wasn’t always a walk in the park. You need to build the endurance.”  

“You used to do laps  _this_  bad?” Tucker asks. Wash clears his throat, turns his head, and doesn’t look at Tucker — basically showing all the signs of a filthy, fucking liar. “Five laps?” Tucker gestures with a hand to the canyon. “This distance?” He drops his hand. “As bad as me?” 

"Yes." Wash agrees, but he avoids eye contact. "In… middle school — look. All I’m trying to say is you did better than last time." He quickly changes the subject, as graceless as he started it. 

Tucker looks up at him and just stares. 

"…You did." Wash insists and it’s harder to argue with him when Tucker so tired he’s about to pass out.  

"Better how?" He’s still breathing heavy, but the sweat’s not gunna last much longer. The armor is temperature-regulated and Tucker can finally enjoy turning it down a few degrees now that he can be stagnant for a little while. 

"Your legs didn’t give out."  

"Oh my God, it’s a miracle," Tucker huffs more aggressively than he meant to. "Private Tucker didn’t need to crawl back to base without his legs. Now we don’t need to replace them from the ones from the robot kit." To his surprise, Wash snorts. 

"Well, that’s better news for you than me – my mechanics aren’t exactly the best," He plays along. "But your endurance got better, and that’s still something.” 

_Now_  Tucker scoffs. “Yeah. Means something like the participation ribbon they give last place.” 

“It does,” He says. “It means you tried. It means you’ve  _been_  trying and it’s paying off.” 

Tucker rolls his eyes, turning away from Wash when he does so. 

"I mean it," Wash adds, softer than before. “You really are doing a good job.” There’s a lightness to his tone. It’s a genuine sound that wasn’t there before and…. oh,  _fuck._  

Tuckers’ heart jumps in a way that sets his blood running fast.  _Oh, not_   _this,_  he thinks,  _not for_   _ **this**_ _._   

It jumps again in response, because Wash sounds… glad. Glad for him.  _Proud_  for him,  _of_  him.

"Uh," Tucker chews his cheek before speaking again. "Thanks. Wash." Wash looks over at him. "That’s…. That’s-" 

"It’s fine," Wash cuts him off quickly, shifting from one leg to the next. "It’s, ah… it’s the truth." 

His face feels hot, and it’s not from running, or sweating, or being cooped up in armor under the hot sun for fucking hours, and now his stomach just dropped, and  _now_  it’s just fucking  _done_. 

The silence is broken when Wash clears his throat, suddenly. “Five minute break, Tucker, I-” Wash chokes on his own slip. “I mean,  _Private_. Pr-private Tucker.” He stammers a correction. “Five minutes. T-take a breather, I’ll… go set up the course.” With that, Wash is gone, but Tucker’s face is still way too red and his heart’s going way too fast and his insides feel unbearably light.

Being distracted by Wash is understandable and a face is just a face even if Tucker thinks it’s something he likes seeing. But right now? Just now? Nail in the coffin. Game fucking over. All denials are off the table. 

‘Kind of Gay for’ Wash officially turned into ‘Crushing On’ Wash. 

Fuck. 


End file.
